


Somatoparaphrenia

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Community: ohsam, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24059185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: There’s only one way to stop an infection like this from spreading: cut your losses.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 145
Collections: Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon





	Somatoparaphrenia

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> _Somatoparaphrenia: A type of monothematic delusion where one denies ownership of a limb (usually the left arm) or an entire side of one's body. Even if provided with undeniable proof that the limb belongs to and is attached to their own body, the patient produces elaborate confabulations about whose limb it really is or how the limb ended up on their body._
> 
> Sam's not sure that everything that came back from the cage is him.

His finger twitches. The slightest spasm at the end of his index finger that taps his nail against the table. The cabin is quiet; Dean gone outside to put bullets in a tree trunk because it makes him feel better, apparently. Bobby’s off to collect more tinned meals for the three of them and Sam is already certain he won’t be able to stomach it.

He stares at his left hand and waits for it to move again. It doesn’t, and his head begins to ache with a now familiar pulse at his temple, right where a tire iron was smashed into his skull.

The cabin door opens and Dean comes hobbling in, one leg twice as thick as the other wrapped in bandages. He almost places his gun on the counter but seems to think better of it, tucking it into the back of his belt.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Sam tears his gaze away from his hand and says, “Nothing.”

* * *

It’s so black when he wakes up that for a moment, he’s not sure if his eyes are open. There’s something pressed against the hollow of his throat and he tries to suck in a breath but all he manages is a pathetic wheeze.

He grabs the wrist of hand clamped around his neck and digs his nails into the flesh as hard as he can. The fingers lose their vice-like grip for a second, long enough for Sam to choke out his brother’s name.

A flashlight swallows up the room with its butter-yellow glow and Sam squints up at Dean’s wide eyes.

“Let go,” Dean says, “Jesus, Sam, stop!”

H grabs Sam’s hand, his left hand, and yanks it away from Sam’s throat. Sam sucks in a lungful of air, chokes it in with a sputtering cough that has him curled over the side of his cot. His vision is fuzzy like television static and once his lungs are filling and emptying contentedly, he pushes himself up into sitting position. Bobby is there, too, and he and Dean are casting glances at one another.

“Did you –“ Sam gasps. “Did you get them?”

He peers around the tiny one-room cabin and finds no one else there but the three of them. Dean sits down and stretches out his broken leg. He looks at Sam with the most nauseating face, all worried lines and pitying eyes.

“Sam, there’s no one here,” he says. “You were choking yourself.”

Sam glances down to his left arm. His fingers twitch. “Oh.”

“Must have been some nightmare,” Dean goes on. “You, uh, you want a drink?”

Sam nods and Bobby disappears into the darker reach of the cabin in search of one of their many bottles of liquor. Sam can’t look at Dean, so he looks at his hand. It rests limply on the thin mattress and Sam can’t help but think of a snake coiled to strike.

“Or if it was some kinky shit you were dreaming about,” Dean says, “I won’t judge.”

Sam half-smiles, can’t find it in himself to finish it. It’s Dean's way to sweep things under the rug with crude jokes and innuendos. Sam lets him.

* * *

 _Ok, so we’re sure you’re not in the cage anymore,_ Lucifer says, _but what if the cage is still in you?_

Sam ignores him, stares straight out the window at the lush green wood thriving outside and shovels another tasteless spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth.

 _I mean, you didn’t really think that once you got out that would be it?_ The devil chuckles. _Come on, Sammy, I thought you were the smart one._

Sam takes another bite before he even finishes the previous.

 _How do you know that all of you is… well,_ you _,_ Lucifer continues. _We’re made for each other. I’ve been inside of you, Sam. I’ll always be inside of you._

Sam spits what’s half-chewed in his mouth back into the bowl. He spits until his tongue is dry and tries his best not to think about the games they played in the cage. It’s a wonder he can eat anything at all.

Sam rubs his lips clean with the back of his right hand. His left hand rests on the table, fingers tapping against the table like they’re waiting for something.

* * *

Sam begins taking walks. The cabin gets smaller each day and the first lungful of fresh air is an instant relief. Dean and Bobby don’t peck at him about it, but he can feel their eyes on his back through the window as he treks off into the brush.

He comes to a creak and sits down on a log, watching the stream dazzle in the sunlight. The scar on his left palm is red a raised, the centre scabbed over where his fingernails have split the seams over and over.

 _Don’t you think it’s a bit convenient?_ Lucifer asks. _This magic button at your literal fingertips to make me go_ poof _._

“I’m not talking to you,” Sam replies.

Lucifer smirks. _I’m not just in your head. This isn’t just you losing it. I’m here in every way. Don’t you wonder why pain on_ that _palm makes me disappear?_

“No, I don’t,” Sam answers, staring straight ahead. He digs his thumbnail into his palm again and the shadow in the corner of his eye disappears. He lets go and the pain ebbs away gently. As an afterthought, he sinks his teeth into upper arm.

* * *

The biting is becoming a problem. He’s got a dozen bruises and dents in the skin of his left arm. It’s necessary, though. Whenever he suspects it itching to grab a gun or curl its fingers around Dean’s neck, Sam sinks his teeth in until he’s sure it’s changed its mind.

Sam’s always been good at hiding things, and Dean and Bobby go on worrying about everything but his left arm. But it isn’t his arm, not really. Lucifer would never have let him go, not really. He thinks he remember, back when Cas yanked him out of the cage, his left wrist pulled down in an icy grip that burned and he remember hoping it would just pull his whole arm off, anything to get away from the pain.

But the devil never let go. Sam realises that now. There’s only one way to stop an infection like this from spreading: cut your losses.

* * *

Dean hid the car keys, although not very well. Sam knows Dean likely better than he knows himself, especially right now when his brain is scrambled, fried and poached. Dean’s fast asleep, snoring and smelling lightly of beer on the couch, some Spanish soap playing out on the old TV set.

Sam fetches a machete from the trunk. He grips it tight in his right hand and glances around the clearing, wondering where might be the best place to sever one’s arm. He decides to distance himself from the cabin, far enough he won’t wake Dean, close enough he can make it back without bleeding to death.

He finds a tree stump, short and wide, the perfect chopping block. The left arm dangles at his side and he keeps his eyes on it, waiting for it to strike out and protect itself. It doesn’t.

The more he can get off, the better. He grabs a thick twig from the ground and shoves it between his teeth as he places the bitten arm onto the wood. He takes his time lining up the edge of the blade to his skin, allowing the metal to kiss the pale flesh of his upper arm. He raises the blade and strikes it down.

It hits the bone, parting skin, fat and muscle on its way in. Blood flows hot and wet to drip down the arm and soak the wooden block beneath. Sam screams through his teeth, grinding the twig to splinters. He has to wiggle it a bit to pull it free and he holds it high again, right hand shaking, left arm tense and trembling.

He pants, tries his best not to pass out, and swings his arm again. The machete halts inches from the bleeding arm and he glances up to Bobby’s startled face. The old man’s hands pull Sam’s arm further away but Sam fights. It’s a losing battle, with a puddle of his blood pooling at his knees, and Bobby wrestles the blade from his hand with ease.

Sam stops trying not to pass out.

* * *

He wakes up, head heavy and pinned to the cushions, his eyes rolling, struggling to latch onto any one thing. He parts his lips, the dry skin peeling uncomfortably. He tries to say something, but all he manages is a croak.

A cup nudges his lips and his tongue is happy welcome the lukewarm water down his throat. He blinks a few times, the cabin swaying with each bat of his lashes. Dean’s there to pull the cup away from his lips. He won’t look at Sam.

“I had to,” Sam tries to explain.

“Sam, try to get some rest.”

“It had to go,” Sam continues. “It – it wasn’t _mine_. It was _his.”_

Dean glances at him, then, eyes watery. He presses his lips together and says, “Sam, just try to sleep.”

“Please, Dean, you have to understand.”

Dean turns away with a sigh so deep and weary it’s a wonder he didn’t deflate entirely. “Thank God Bobby got here when he did,” he mutters.

Sam frown. He feels a twitch at his left side, a slight shift in the bedsheet. He glances over to find the left arm bandaged up and still very much attached to the rest of him. “No,” Sam says, then again louder. “No!”

“Sam,” Dean pleads.

“You have to get it off!” Sam yells. “Dean, please!”

“Sam, you’re not thinking straight, okay? Just – just calm down.”

Sam tries to pull at the bandages, figures nails will do just as well as a machete with enough determination, but Dean grabs his wrist quick as swatting flies and pins it to the bed. Sam’s too busy trying to crawl out of his own skin to notice Bobby press his fingers into the hollows of his cheeks and shove a couple of pills stolen from the hospital into his mouth. Sam swallows, despite himself, and drifts fairly quickly.

It’s like he’s sinking into the cot, down and down and down, until the cabin is a speck of light above and he’s being swaddled up in the dark. Above, Dean and Bobby frown at each other, mutter world that melt like butter.

His left arm raises its hand and waves, the scar on its palm grins.


End file.
